A Clash of Cultures. Or Do I Mean Vultures?

Today's the day Carlotta and Marie-Louise come here to see Greg and I in action, as The Boss puts it. I'd much prefer to see them in action, but I suspect that this would prove challenging, if the action was supposed to be work-related.

They arrive mid-morning, and Greg is ordered to drive to the station to collect them. Obviously their longer legs are less functional than mine. It's only a five minute walk, and I'd been rather hoping they'd get lost and we could lose an hour or so of their company while we "tried" to find them. Greg had even helped by sending them a slightly inaccurate hand-drawn map, but The Boss's insistence on their being chauffeur driven dooms us to disappointment. Greg says he'd have bought one of those traffic light air fresheners if he'd known he was going to have to give them a lift, just to confirm their low opinions of us, but he didn't have time.

When he brings them into the building, they have to pass Joan from the Party Office in the corridor. Greg says that Carlotta looks her up and down as if she is an exhibit in a zoo. I have to admit that this is a fairly understandable error, but for the purposes of today, Joan is one of us, and therefore entirely beyond criticism, except from The Boss, of course. When Carlotta says, "We just met Jean or whatever her name was," Andrew just grunts and looks disgusted. Honestly, that man couldn't tell who was on his side if his life depended on it.

Both girls stand around, sniffing as if there is a bad smell, and making the place look untidy, until The Boss orders me to make them coffee and suggests they chill out in the Oprah Room until lunchtime. I have a better idea, and suggest to The Boss that it would be a useful learning experience for both Carlotta and Marie-Louise to sit in on today's surgery. They look as enthusiastic about this suggestion as if I'd proposed they jump into a pit of snakes, which makes it all the more satisfying when Andrew says,

"Damn good idea, Molly." But then he adds, "No need for you to come - one of the girls can take the notes."

This wipes the smile off my face, especially when he continues,

"We'll hand them to you afterwards, so you can do the letters." That'll teach me to get creative. There's nothing worse than trying to work from someone else's notes, even if they aren't Andrew's.

The girls look shell-shocked after surgery, and slump back onto the couch, while The Boss holds forth about Steve Ellington's latest assault on one of his neighbours. Andrew appears to be enjoying giving the impression that he dares to boldly meet with the bad, the mad and the dangerous, without a thought for his own safety. Greg yawns audibly, and I decide to interrupt. (There's only so much that anyone can be expected to endure.)

"Um, Andrew - the surgery notes?" I say, without much optimism.

"Ah, yes - here you are." The Boss proffers one piece of A4, bearing his usual hieroglyphics. "The girls have got the rest."

Carlotta looks at Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise looks back at her. Neither says anything.

"You didn't take any notes?" I say. "None?"

"We thought Andrew had it all under control," Carlotta says.

I can't help myself. Before I know it, I say, "Andrew never has it all under control. For Godsake."

I stomp off for a cigarette. Greg tells me later that, while I am outside, Andrew apologises to the girls on my behalf, tells them I haven't been myself recently, and that there is no need to worry, that I will sort it out, because I always do. Humph.

Now I can't even have a drink at lunchtime, as I shall need all my wits about me to save the situation this afternoon. This doesn't stop anyone else, though, and Carlotta and Marie-Louise are legless by the time we stagger back to the office. I like them a whole lot better drunk, actually - especially when it makes them admit that they count the days until Recess, because Andrew reduces one or other of them to tears so often that they're both thinking of resigning.

It seems he takes the same approach in the Westminster office as he does in ours - which is to blame one of his staff in public, whenever he makes a mistake. Makes me feel a whole lot better that, even with all the glamour of the Cinnamon Club, and the other perks, they too feel stressed beyond belief, and can't cope with all the unnecessary work he creates. In fact, when they tell us how long it takes them to travel in and out of work, and what their rent costs, I end up feeling sorry for them. I don't think I could handle spending hours on the tube each day, just for the dubious pleasure of working for Andrew.

It's kisses all round when their taxi arrives to take them back to the train station. I think The Boss has misunderstood the protocol, though - as he goes for everyone's lips, except Greg's. We all wipe our mouths ostentatiously, while going "Psshaw" - but he doesn't seem to notice. He wanders off to do some work at home, while I spend the afternoon phoning all the constituents who attended surgery this morning.

I have to lure them into telling me the full details of what they have already told Andrew - and the girls - in the guise of seeking "clarification of a few points." I don't mind this as much as I had expected to, and, in fact, I feel oddly cheerful when I have finished. It seems Andrew isn't quite as daft as he looks: he's succeeded in raising office morale, though probably not in the way that he intended. Now we're all united in thinking him a complete nightmare.

Unintended Consequences & Broken-Up Thinking

God, all these changes with regard to Housing Benefit and council housing are stressing people out. It's the uncertainty that's getting to constituents more than anything else, although some are pointing out how many of the proposals are contradictory, at least in what their effects are likely to be.

Mrs Jennings rings up to say that she has been thinking of trying to exchange her council house for a smaller one, now her children are grown up. She wants to know whether, if she goes ahead with an exchange, her tenancy agreement on the new house will be time-limited. I can't give her a definitive answer, as no-one seems to have addressed this particular issue at all, though it does seem likely to me.

"They must think people are bloody stupid if they think anyone will move to a smaller house if that's going to be what happens to their security," she says. "People will just cling on to their houses 'til they die."

"It does seem rather ill thought-out," I say. "But we will have to wait and see." I don't say that what we don't know is what the exact nature of the carrots and sticks will be.

Mrs Jennings appears to be clearer-sighted than some ministers. Her next point seems equally valid:

"So, tell me this, then - what about all these plans they've got to make people move to find jobs? They aren't going to work either, are they? No-one's going to give up a secure tenancy for a time-limited one. Not when they're low-paid and their jobs are insecure."

I'm particularly confused by that particular set of plans myself. Constituents have always been able to exchange with tenants of other councils, as far as I'm aware. The only factors that I've ever known to prevent such arrangements are when one of the parties has been in rent arrears, or has had too few children to merit the size of house they would be swapping for. Maybe it's just a re-branding exercise. God knows, politicians are good at that.

I just wish the coalition would get on and clarify the detail so that we can actually start giving constituents some properly informed advice. At the moment, policy on housing and Housing Benefit seems a contradictory mess, which may well end up having the opposite effect to the one the coalition is hoping for.

It's always the same when politicians try to be radical. I bet they're not consulting caseworkers, or anyone else who lives in the real world - as per bloody usual. Meanwhile, some of our most fragile constituents are beside themselves with anxiety. Those with physical illnesses are finding it harder to cope, and those with mental health issues are losing the plot entirely. It's certainly not making any of them more able to lead more independent lives.

It seems as if it must be every man (or woman) for themselves in the Government at the moment, even more than is usually the case. Do they even talk to each other, before they make policy announcements to the Press? It's worse than when Blair was PM - though that business of dragging those guilty of anti-social behaviour to a cashpoint, in order to make them pay an on-the-spot fine, was a classic of its kind...... Maybe we should have an experiment, where MPs and ministers do their caseworkers' jobs for a three-month internship, while the caseworkers go off and make policy. The results couldn't be any worse.

I hate stupid jargon, but joined-up thinking does seem to have been conspicuously absent from some of the coalition's recent announcements, at least from Mrs Jennings' perspective. And it's not just a problem with regard to housing. Witness the lack of consistency between the Equalities Minister's position on "body confidence"(not to mention her sometimes derogatory language about the thin), and that of the Public Health Minister, who wants to bring back use of the word "fat."

I'm looking forward to seeing who will win on that particular issue: Lynne or Anne. I'd quite like to have Government approval to respond to Max's mother's rude comments in kind, next time she starts on me about being "as skinny as a rake." Last time we went round there, she peered at me, then said,

"Molly, you are far too skinny. Your arms are like sticks, and you have no bottom. No bottom at all."

I said nothing, as usual - though Max did mutter under his breath,

"That's because you've got a big enough arse for four people, for f*ck's sake."

Now I come to think of it, it was nice that Max was moved to mumble in my defence, even if he did stop short of speaking loud enough to make himself heard. Maybe that's what the problem is with the coalition? Too much mumbling, not enough yelling.

A Logical, if Non-PC Approach to Casework.

Greg's on a mission today. He says things have been far too miserable around here since Recess began, and that we need to try something far more effective than yesterday's disastrous attempts at raising morale. Especially my morale, as he says I have a face like a wet weekend, which he rates as even less attractive than my "Infected" face.

He suggests we opt for a session of Writing Honest Letters at lunchtime, if we can get rid of The Boss for a while. This seems much more likely to cheer me up than anything else that's been tried, including Johnny's series of grovelling emails apologising for being such a f*ckwit, so I agree. I set only one condition - that we shred the letters immediately after we have read them to each other. (The postman indicated that he wouldn't be open to further bribery if we posted them again by accident. He has no sense of humour.)

There are an awful lot of potential candidates for today's session, but Mr Beales has written in again, so we start with him. This time it's not about "the cheap slapper" who didn't like the headless photos he took of her wedding, or the Policeman who hid in a bush before jumping out in front of him. Now we're on the subject of Mr Beales' sister-in-law. She wanted a gastric band operation, but was ordered to lose five stone before she could be considered for that. Mr Beales thinks this is ridiculous, and tells us so - even though she has almost reached her target now.

Greg starts typing without any prior consideration.

Dear Mr Beales


Thank you for your letter regarding the fact that your obese sister-in-law has had to lose five stone before having her gastric band fitted. Whilst I take your point that the only reason that she wanted the operation was to lose weight, she has now proved that she can achieve this without the need for surgery.


I therefore have a radical suggestion for you: if she's managed to lose some of her excess weight in order to achieve her goal, why doesn't she just keep going? Whatever she is doing is obviously working, and were she to carry on, the funds that would otherwise have been spent on her operation could be used to save someone else, whose illness was not caused by spending too much time and money in Greggs. She might also be able to give your wife some tips.


Yours sincerely
Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.


Greg hits print, sits back in his chair and smiles at me.

"Your turn, Molly. Who's it going to be, then?"

So many choices, so little time. It's cruel to have to pick just one, but Andrew could be back at any moment. It is lunchtime, after all - and he hates to pay for food when he could just steal it from me and Greg. In a panic, I opt for Mrs Backhouse. She's had it coming for a long time, now I come to think of it.

Dear Mrs Backhouse,


Thank you for your letter regarding your housing situation. It was kind of you to write, but you really didn't need to bother as, to all intents and purposes, your letter was identical to the last ten that you have sent me, not to mention that it merely re-iterated what you have said during the half-dozen constituency surgery appointments that you have already attended since the most recent General Election.


As I have repeatedly explained to you - and indeed to Mr Backhouse, though I am never actually sure if he is listening - the position is that I am completely unable to force Northwick Council to re-house you and your family, whilst Mr Backhouse refuses to agree to the move. I confess that I am completely mystified by your insistence on bringing this matter to my attention, given that you say that you and your husband are happily married. 


Furthermore, as Mr Backhouse is the only tenant named on the tenancy agreement, not to mention your husband and the children's father, the Council cannot approve your exchanging the property either, without your husband's permission. I can therefore only suggest that you divert your considerable energies to endeavouring to persuade him of the necessity for this move, rather than continuing to bother my staff who have rather more pressing issues to deal with. 


I am enclosing a leaflet which gives information about the services offered by our local branch of Relate, and I also enclose a list of solicitors who specialise in divorce, should you decide to take more drastic measures. Might I also request that, should you attend any more surgery appointments, you consider bringing your own box of tissues with you.


Yours sincerely


Andrew Sinclair 
MP for Northwick East
Working hard for hardworking families, especially those who actually speak to each other without the need for me to act as a referee.

God, WHL Hour is always so therapeutic. We finish just in time before The Boss comes back, and my sandwich provides a useful distraction, allowing me to shred the letters while Andrew chews. Greg and I feel energised, and able to carry on indefinitely - or at least until The Boss comes back from this afternoon's meeting with the Agoraphobics Group.

I'm expecting trouble on that front. If I'd been locked in my home for ten years, and was only just finding the courage to venture out, a couple of hours with Andrew would be enough to convince me to go back home, lock the door and throw away the key.

How Not To Cheer Someone Up.

Everyone seems to have decided that I need cheering up. That's where the consensus breaks down. The differing methods by which this might be achieved seem to say rather more about the people making the suggestions than about the causes of my Weltschmerz.

While we're both getting ready for work this morning, Max suggests he meets me in town straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, "What?" - as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.

"Um, well - I'm just surprised, that's all. What brought that on?"

"Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?"

"Well, on past experience, it'd better be somewhere where I won't feel an idiot sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up," I say. Max looks wounded.

"I always turn up," he says.

"Eventually." I never know when to accept an olive branch when it is offered. Though this is not to say that I concede Max's point about my resemblance to an elephant. We arrange to meet at Caffe Nero. Again. You can't say we lack imagination.

I'm in quite a good mood when I arrive at work, but this is short-lived. After Greg has attended this morning's "briefing," which is even briefer than usual, he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh, and buries his head in his hands. The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed.

"Greg tell you my idea?" he says.

"Not yet," I say. "What have you thought of now?'

"Something to boost office morale." The Boss's self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back, and struts in to the kitchen. "Can't say I'm not sensitive to my staff's needs." He must be still drunk, because his next question is, "Coffee, anyone?"

"Is that his plan?" I ask Greg. "Making us a coffee?"

"No," says Greg. "Worse than that. Much worse." He's about to explain, when there is a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door.

"Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?" he says. "Can't find anything in here."

The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning. In the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn't in its usual place. It's in the middle of the floor.

"What happened to the drawer?"

"Must've pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon." The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, "Oh, I'm late for the Easemount Remembering Project. Better go."

So much for that, then. Democracy is never extended to coffee making in our office. Not during Recess, anyway. When I've finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what The Boss's great motivational plan actually is. Let's just say it's unlikely to have the desired effect.

Andrew has decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. This will apparently also give them the chance to "see and appreciate" what we do here in the boring old provinces. Carlotta doesn't sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are, when I call her to make the arrangements. By the time she's given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise's allergies, I can't think of a single restaurant that will fit the bill.

The rest of the day passes quite quickly, mostly with cases linked to constituents having lost their jobs due to the recession: bank charges, benefit claims and one potential eviction. Before I know it, it's time to meet Max. I'm actually quite excited, which is odd, as Caffe Nero is hardly the Marriott. Or even Heathrow, though I am still looking forward to it. I even freshen up my make-up - and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon - before I leave work, to the sound of Greg muttering about the office smelling like a tart's boudoir. I am already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there's no sign of Max yet.

By the time I've been there for forty-five minutes, I'm almost the only customer left. And I have drunk so much bloody coffee that I've given myself palpitations. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table in case anyone thinks I am a sad git who has been stood up, but there's nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. When it's a full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly-sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.

"I'm really sorry," says Max. "Had an emergency."

"Did you?" I say. "What sort of emergency exactly?"

"The deliverymen missed a customer's coffee table off this week's delivery round. So I had to take it there myself after work."

"Ah," I say. "Well, that is an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish so that I could be there to meet you on time." Then I hang up, turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can't say that I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood. They couldn't do any worse than the f*ckwits who've already had a try.

Various Forms of Artistry, and a Change of Plan.

The Boss has opened all the mail by the time I get into work this morning, so trying to work out what he's done with it proves a bit challenging. The office looks as if it has been rented out to a playgroup over the weekend, with stuff strewn everywhere - though there is no sign of the post. In Andrew's defence: at least he wants to read his constituents' views, unlike some MPs, if today's reports regarding Dominic Raab MP's unwillingness for his email address to be in the public domain are anything to go by.

Greg finally finds most of the letters shoved behind the cushions of the couch in the Oprah Room, along with a gold earring of questionable origin. Andrew claims not to have seen that before, but he does pocket it after giving it a cursory look. Greg is furious.

"Why the bloody hell did you give it to him? Are you an idiot?" he says.

"He took it from me, when I asked if he knew whose it was," I say.

"You should have held onto it, and just let him look!"

"Why?" I am already confused and it's only mid-morning.

"It belongs in the Staff Insurance folder, for f*cks sake."

"Why? We don't even know whose it is. Do we?"

"Maybe not, but I reckon we can be pretty damn sure that Trish would never wear a monstrosity like that."

He's right. The only lapse in taste that Trish has ever demonstrated is when she decided to marry The Boss.

Is everyone cheating on their spouses? It certainly seems like it. I decide I need a cigarette and, by the time I return, Greg has started sorting through the retrieved mail, which looks a bit like the newspaper after my mother has finished reading it. A total mess. He rapidly loses patience, and shoves most of it at me, as if I am somehow more able to cope with collating the un-numbered pages of mixed-up letters than he is. I don't recall the acquisition of that particular skill having formed an intrinsic part of my degree course, but Greg is now otherwise occupied - in wrestling with the contents of a large postal tube.

"Oh, bloody hell. Richard Mackenzie's stopped taking his meds again."

"How do you know tha -" I glance up. "Oh, I see."

Greg is holding up an A2 sheet of heavy paper - bearing a quite astonishing painting. You can almost feel the energy with which the brushstrokes must have been made, and the colour palette is broad, to say the least. I am lost in admiration, but only for a moment. I know what this means only too well, but I check anyway:

"Was there a letter with it?"

Greg shakes his head in response.

"Phone Richard's CPN* - now!" I can be surprisingly assertive when necessary.

"Already dialling," says Greg.

Richard is an enormously talented artist, but only when he hasn't taken his medication. When he has, his work is entirely without interest, and doesn't even begin to resemble the work he is capable of when he's at his most distressed. I'm no critic, but I'm pretty sure that Psychotic Richard the artist is highly-marketable, while Tranquillised Richard really isn't. There must be a moral in this story somewhere, but I'm damned if I can see it today.

Anyway, marketability isn't the most important issue where Richard's artwork is concerned. Over the years we've been dealing with him, his paintings have evolved into an effective measure of his level of sanity. Greg and I might as well be code-breakers. I bet Saatchi doesn't provide psychological assessments of the artists he supports.

Everyone seems to be being creative today. Johnny emails mid-afternoon to say that he has thought of a change of plan. He has decided that the smog in Moscow has now become too severe for his wife and children to remain there any longer, and so they are flying back to the UK tomorrow to stay at the family's Irish retreat until the fires have been brought under control.

I am quite relieved to hear that Johnny's wife does still exist - given that she seems to have been airbrushed out of his life over the last month or so - but then I feel awful again. I have been planning to do to her what Annoying Ellen would do to me, given half a chance. If Ellen hasn't done it already.

Johnny adds that he has decided that, when he comes to the UK the following week - supposedly to meet me - it would now make sense for him to join his family in Ireland. This plan will allow him to meet with his "wafty" architect to approve the next stage of the work on the show-off early-retirement home he's having built. He says this as if everyone knows what dealing with an architect is like.

I assume he's therefore going to cancel our meeting, and am surprised to find that I don't mind this idea as much as might have been expected. But he is actually suggesting that he can "get away with a stopover in London for one night" before travelling to Ireland, "subject to a few minor alterations to the schedule".

He says that he will be "pressed for time," due to the early flight he will have to catch to Dublin the next morning, so he has cancelled our booking at the Marriott County Hall, and booked us into a hotel near Heathrow instead. He doesn't even ask me if I think this is okay, or acknowledge that it will make the journey a damn sight longer and more inconvenient from my point of view. I bet he thinks I'm going to stand in the arrivals lounge, holding a placard saying, "Johnny Hunter's Bit On The Side" and waiting to lead him off to bed.

Johnny's having assumed that I have nothing better to do than to cater for his every whim reminds me so much of The Boss, that I become very cross with him. I don't think I let this show in my reply, though - as I am still exercising caution with regard to emails since the Gary Glitter incident. My fourth draft reads:

Johnny
Whereas I have a reasonably convincing reason to be seen hanging around near the House of Commons, I have no excuse at all to be waiting for someone at bloody Heathrow. The Boss doesn't take holidays, so I couldn't even claim I was meeting him. And with my luck, there'll be some sort of terrorist incident, and then my picture will suddenly pop up on the news coverage and Max will see me. 
I don't think I can make it. 
Sorry. 
Mx

What I should have added was, "I am not your bloody PA, either - and the idea of standing around in an airport waiting for you to arrive holds zero appeal," but I am too polite for my own good.

Afterwards, I feel oddly relieved that I am not going to have a dirty mid-week weekend. What on earth is wrong with me? I look down at my day book, and see that I have obliterated most of today's pages with doodles that look like the work of an obsessive-compulsive on speed. Maybe I am mad enough to be discovered by Charles Saatchi? Then I could pay for an architect to build me a retreat from all this. I may save these doodles for posterity - although I'll have to black out the various swear words I also seem to have scrawled across the pages.

*CPN - Community Psychiatric Nurse

National Book Day. Or Not.

I am going to have to block outgoing calls on our home phone again. It's a pain in the arse, as last time I did it, Max and I both promptly forgot what the code was and ended up at least as inconvenienced as Josh. However, needs must.

Today, Connie loses her temper as she wants to phone her best friend to arrange to go to the cinema tonight, and Josh is hogging the phone. She comes stomping into the living room, and says,

"Mum, can you please get Josh off the bloody phone? Now!"

"Well, I'm sure he won't be long," I say. I am endeavouring to be more reasonable and less prone to hasty acts, since my email to Johnny after Annoying Ellen's party.

"He's been on it for hours already," says Connie. "Do something."

"Well, use your mobile, if it's so urgent," I say. I really can't be bothered to get off the sofa and trek upstairs to where Josh must be using the extension.

"I'm out of credit. Please, Mum. You're always telling him to keep the bills down, anyway."

Given my aversion to hypocrisy, and my uncaring response to Connie's complaints yesterday, I suppose I had better be seen to make some effort. I do wish Max wasn't able to sleep through everything, though. He hasn't stirred since dozing off straight after lunch.

I walk into the hall, and shout upstairs in the vague hope that I will be heard over the hideous sound of screamo. This so-called music is emanating from Josh's room, along with shouts of laughter from Josh, Robbie and God knows how many of the other lads. It's like Grand Central Station in our house these days.

"Josh? Josh!" No answer. Bloody hell. "Josh!" (This last was worthy of Miss Chambers.)

"What?"

"Get off the phone. Connie needs to use it."

"Okay, Mum. In a sec."

I return to the important business of doing nothing and am just reaching that attractive pre-snooze drooling state, when Connie comes back into the room, picks up the phone, then slams it down and glares at me.

"He's still on the bloody thing!"

Honestly, Josh would try the patience of a saint. I am not going upstairs again, so I just pick up the phone instead. Someone is speaking, but it isn't Josh. It's Robbie. I have no idea what makes me listen, instead of saying something - but I wish I hadn't.

"So, Sir, as I was saying," Robbie says. "With it being National Book Week, Bonjour Books will donate a pound to a charity of your choice for every minute that you listen to one of our authors reading from one of their best-selling works. "

"Sounds a good idea," says the man at the other end of the phone.

"Today, we have Joshua O'Nyon-Quavers reading from his book, Strange Things On The Shore. I will put him on now. Take it away, Joshua."

I am transfixed by curiosity. Isn't that shameful? Instead of yelling, I carry on listening. I am a very bad mother.

"Chapter One. As I walked slowly along the seashore, the shells crunching under my feet like crisps -" Josh sounds almost exactly like Robert Webb. It's unnerving.

Josh's odd story continues for quite some time until the crunchy snack metaphors become so excessive that I finally get a grip. I replace the handset, then sprint upstairs where I march into Josh's room, clamber over various skinny-jean clad legs and reach over to unplug the extension. Robbie and the others start giggling, while Josh misses the point, as always:

"But I remembered to put 141 in before I dialled this time!"

So this is what my inadequate parenting skills have achieved - a son whose notion of an excuse for his appalling behaviour is that he did everything he could to avoid being caught. My analogy with Grand Central Station was more apt than even I  - the Mystic Meg of Northwick - could have predicted: I certainly feel like sitting down and weeping now.

The Elephant Woman and Other Squabbles.

It's at weekends that I realise that, while I spend every working day sorting out other people's problems, I am completely incompetent when it comes to dealing with my own. I don't know what on earth is going on with Max and me. If anything's going on. We've been living like this for years, putting our relationship last, giving it only cursory attention, and still muddling along - so why does everything feel as if it's suddenly heading towards disaster? Is it just me? Has Max even noticed?

I think he might have been up for a shag last night. No idea whether this was due to The Boss' intervention or not, but anyway, Max was definitely making an effort when we got home from the party. He put the kettle on to make a coffee, and then started cuddling me, while making appreciative noises. I told myself to go along with it, even though all I really wanted to do was to go to bed as quickly as possible, and try and forget about Andrew's disconcerting comments.

But when the hug turned into a kiss on the neck, I suddenly had a flashback of him moving in on Annoying Ellen's neck and that was it. Ten minutes later we were having an all-out slanging match. Of the kind where he pretends disbelief that his actions have merited my fury, and I get more and more angry at the pretence. Then he fell back on the old chestnut:

"Well, if you don't trust me after all these years, then I - just - don't - know." He did that infuriating head-shaking thing at the same time. That's always a red rag to a bull.

There must be something the matter with me. I can't ever react like a normal, drunken person and just yell abuse, somewhat incoherently, during an argument with Max. Something in me flips and I turn into a forensic detective, picking through the evidence, presenting it, and then daring him to contradict me. I even frighten myself with how cold and articulate I become. It's just like when I have to deal with a particularly offensive or mad constituent. But much less satisfying.

After I have listed every time that I have had to give Max the benefit of the doubt during our marriage, and enumerated every single occasion on which he has humiliated me, he then says, right on cue:

"You're like a f*cking elephant. You never bloody forget anything. " I hate the weary way he says that.

"Well, maybe if you recalled any of it, you wouldn't keep on bloody repeating the same things over and over again, and then acting surprised when I object."

I've climbed up onto the kitchen counter by now and am sitting cross-legged, settled in for the long-haul. He must have noticed this familiar manoeuvre, as he just slams the kettle down, turns away and walks off. Now it's time for his other standard line.

"I'm going to bed. There's no talking to you when you're in this mood. You're so bloody unreasonable."

There it is. I am so bloody unreasonable. And there was me thinking that he was the one who'd acted like a prize shit.

Being in the right does not make for a good night's sleep, unfortunately. Being in the wrong seems to act as a tranquilliser, which is bloody typical - Max sleeps like a snoring baby, and is full of energy today. He's staying out of my way by mending the shed door; while I am knackered, and can't be bothered to do anything. Then Connie decides to make matters worse.

"Bloody, bloody hell," she says. "Why are we so poor?"

"What?"

"I'm the only one out of the girls from my course who's not on holiday abroad. Again. Every vacation off they all go, and poor muggins here has to work instead."

"Well, how on earth can they afford to do that?"

"Because their parents pay all their accommodation fees. So their student loans are just spending money."

"Oh, bloody hell, Connie. You know we can't afford to do that."

"I know! I'm just saying. Why can't you and Dad get proper jobs, though?"

Why indeed. It's ironic, isn't it? When anyone finds out what I do for a living, there's always a moment during which they look both unnerved, and really impressed. I always have to swear a lot at parties, and make fun of myself, just to put people at their ease - but it's bloody ridiculous, really. I probably make less money than almost everyone we know. A lot less, and I only wield power on behalf of someone else. What little power a backbench MP can be said to have anyway.

That was the thing that shocked me the most when I first started working in politics, during the euphoria after the 1997 General Election. I really thought the party could change the world, and that I was going to be on the inside track, helping The Boss use his power to improve things for the people of Northwick. I think that's probably what Andrew thought, too. It didn't take either of us long to work out how little power MPs really have, except to make female constituents go weak at the knees and lose their brains - in Andrew's case. My being caught in his reflected glory has never had the same effect on men, much to my disappointment.

Now I'm thoroughly depressed, and almost wishing I was at work today. I am a crap parent, an unreasonable wife, a low-paid worker in a dull and mindless job, (if some people are to be believed), and I may even be about to get another stepmother who looks barely older than Connie.

To make things worse, Connie has inherited my lack of awareness (according to Max) of when to shut up. She continues to moan about having been born into poverty, and having to work all summer just to earn enough to get through the next academic year. Until I lose it.

"Con, I am not in the mood. If you don't like it, then phone Social Services and report us for being inadequate parents."

See? Unreasonable. And, today, I don't even care.

When Did The Boss Suddenly Become An Expert In Body Language?

Oh God. Well, as if my faith in men hadn't already taken a nosedive this week, Mr Cowan has just sent it plummeting to the depths. The phone rings almost as soon as I arrive at work this morning - and the caller turns out to be the Police officer investigating the Cowan case. Mr Cowan has just been released after spending most of the night being questioned. The Police officer has no idea if Mrs Cowan even knew where her husband was overnight, as she was at her mother's when he was arrested. Apparently, he refused to call her to come and pick him up from the Police station when he was released, so I have no idea if she is still in blissful ignorance or not.

Although Mr Cowan continues to deny it, the Police say that it is undeniably his signature on all the allegedly-forged cheques, and his face pictured on the footage obtained from the CCTV camera above the cash machine where his card was being used - again, fraudulently, according to him. I feel sick. That's a marriage in more desperate trouble than mine and Max's. I suppose I should count myself lucky. Though I may just request a credit report myself - just to make sure.

I spend the rest of the day terrified to answer the phone, in case it's Mrs Cowan, complaining that her husband has been unjustly accused. Thank God, she doesn't call, but I am knackered from the constant rush of adrenalin anyway, as the phones barely stop. To add to that, there are the usual Friday surgery appointments - all taken by the usual suspects; and the misery doesn't even end there. Oh, no. I am the luckiest woman in the world.

This evening is to be spent in the company of The Boss too. There's a Party fundraising event on, with an ex-Minister attending to rally the troops. On this basis, The Boss has temporarily lifted his ban on Greg and I mixing with Party staff, and has suggested that we go, with our partners. Greg is infuriated by Andrew's insensitivity.

"The man has no respect for those of us unlucky enough to find ourselves alone in this cruel world," he says, before making an excuse about needing to take his mother to the all-night Tescos. I can't get out of going to the fundraiser, though. The Boss' suggestion that both Max and I attend was more like an order, and Andrew is even going to grin and bear it himself.

The whole thing is hideous, of course. It's been arranged via the Party's looniest activist, a madwoman with delusions of grandeur. She has an inexplicable soft spot for The Boss, which is all the evidence you need for her being personality-disordered as far as I am concerned. She has made all the arrangements, spending the last six months planning the event. The damn thing has required constant consultation with Andrew, always in the Oprah Room, and always with the door firmly closed.

The running order goes like this: the ex-Minister is first to give a speech at a local hall, before his appearance is followed by a completely random dance performance given by the loony's rather unattractive teenage daughters. This is like watching the dance of the elephants in Fantasia, only far less graceful, and accompanied by very loud thudding - as well as being of dubious political or fundraising value.

Then we are all swept off to the loony's palatial house for cocktails and a buffet. She has employed the entire staff of a local Indian restaurant to cook and serve the food. Luckily, she hasn't chosen the staff of The Star of India for this honour, so I suppose things could have been even worse - though not by much.

There is champagne flowing - which seems to be de rigueur at Party social events these days, though I hate the stuff. Guarantees a hangover even before you've managed to go to sleep. My warnings do not have a cautionary effect on The Boss, however - though I note that Max is sticking resolutely to soft drinks. In the absence of any tempting shiny women, this is probably unnecessary, but I am not so guilt-ridden after yesterday's virtual encounter that I feel the need to tell him that. Or, at least, I'm not guilt-ridden, until The Boss puts in his tuppence-worth.

"Max," he says, as he lurches towards us. "Good to see you. And isn't our Molly looking great tonight?"

"Um, yes," says Max. Try harder, I can't help thinking, but then The Boss continues:

"She's looking so good this last few weeks that I reckon she must be having an affair! What d'you think, Max?"

The Boss takes another swig of champagne, looks me up and down unnecessarily closely, and then continues,

"I'd keep a very close eye on her, if I were you. Know what I mean?"

Then, with a wink worthy of Mr Beales, he staggers off to annoy someone else. Oh, my God. Is Andrew reading my emails during his early-morning snooping sessions? I can't bear it.

Max says nothing, but doesn't argue when I say I am tired and want to go home. In fact, he looks quite keen himself, though his enthusiasm soon dissipates when we have a row as soon as we've arrived. I can't even begin to think about that now. I shall process it tomorrow. There's something to look forward to.

Oops. The Dangers of Frustration.

Today is a nightmare. As part of his mission to collect every disaffected non-constituent in a 300-mile radius, and to add them to our workload, The Boss has brought Igor back into the fold. Igor is a madman, who looks exactly like Alexei Sayle in The Young Ones. He is convinced that he is being persecuted by the Russian mafia, despite the fact that he claims to have been no more than a postman when he lived in his home country. I don't think that postman has ever been code for spy, even in Igor's case, and he would make a terrible spy anyway - he's far too big and flamboyant.

This development is too depressing for words, as Igor is at least as demanding as Mr Beales, and a whole lot more unstable. The Boss can't resist him, as Igor is the most shameless flatterer I have ever met. Today, Igor breezes in to the office, and promptly falls to his knees in front of The Boss - who he clasps around the thighs, while muttering various overblown expressions of gratitude. Then he sings us a Russian song about brotherly love and comradeship. Or that's what he says it's about. He could be singing a shopping list for all any of us know. The Boss sits there, feet up on my desk, lapping up the adoration. The sight is so nauseating that Greg has to take an early lunch, just to avoid being overcome by the urge to beat both Andrew and Igor to death.

The day doesn't improve when Mrs Cowan rings again to ask whether I've managed to get anywhere with her case yet. I feel terrible for having to stonewall her. She can't possibly know what her husband might be up to, or she wouldn't have brought their case to our attention. Would she? And how on earth is she going to feel if it turns out that it's her beloved husband who has brought them to the brink of financial ruin, and not some unknown fraudster?

I'm so stressed by the whole thing, that I decide to email Johnny before I go home. I need someone to make me feel good. However, things don't look promising when I upset him by the content of my first email, in which I ask his opinion of whether the Russian Mafia are really all that Igor is claiming they are. Johnny's reply snaps back:

"Those of us who live and work in Russia do not discuss the M-Word, here or anywhere."

Ouf. That's put me firmly in my place, an experience that is not quite as enjoyable as when Johnny is just being mildly assertive. As payback, I am rather tempted to mention Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition. Then I decide that I can't afford to fall out with Johnny, as the whole situation with Max is quite bad enough. So I swallow my pride, and make nice - as the Ya Yas would say. (Being a Southern Belle is one of my oldest fantasies, which I blame on having seen Gone With The Wind three times.) My acquiescence has an unexpected effect, and I think I may just have had virtual sex. Accidentally. It was quite pleasant, actually. At least I didn't feel that I needed to put a bag over my head, despite the absence of Botox.

As I walk home, I wonder where in the scale of marital infidelities my misdemeanour would rank? Higher or lower than kissing a real - albeit cosmetically-enhanced - person in front of your wife and daughter? More or less forgiveable? God knows. I shall have to give this some thought, once I've stopped thinking about the event itself, of course.

Is Anything Ever As It Seems?

For God's sake. I don't know where to start. Today has been a little stressful, to say the least - even though Greg is still keeping up with the sterling work of finding The Boss pointless things to do that will keep him out of the office for most of each day. At some point, Andrew's going to notice that Greg has signed him up to be the patron of a bunch of local organisations, some of whose aims directly contradict those of the others - but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I have more important things on my mind at the moment.

The Police officer who is dealing with the Cowan's identity fraud case finally calls me back. His call isn't exactly helpful. Firstly, he warns me that it is the Police's unofficial view that Andrew's office should "take a back seat on this one." Is he trying to tell me to butt out? I'm not having that. Mr and Mrs Cowan are suffering, and are well on their way to losing their home, and yet none of the organisations involved seem to give a monkey's about it. I say this to the officer, albeit in that excessively polite way that is so much more effective than being overtly rude. He has a re-think.

"Can we have an off-the-record conversation?" he says.

"If that's what it will take."

Honestly, I wish he'd just get on with it! Well, that's not strictly true. I did wish he'd get on with it - until he'd finished his explanation. Now what the hell am I going to do? I can't bear it. It turns out that the reason that the Police - and the Cowan's bank - are apparently doing nothing, is because they suspect that it is actually Mr Cowan who is committing the "fraud." And they have no idea as to whether Mrs Cowan is in on it or not. The officer's top tip is that I should try and fob the Cowans off, until the results of the investigation are complete. Great. If I'd wanted to do this sort of stuff, I'd have applied for RADA.

After dinner, cooked by a still-penitent Max, but for which I have no appetite, I check my email. There's one from Dinah. It contains a link to this article about Derrick Bird and his Thai girlfriend, who is alleged to have used a false name, and to have conned Mr Bird out of thousands of pounds, before dumping him for someone else.

Dinah just says, "Spot the difference." Oh, my God. Derrick Bird's girlfriend looks exactly like the girl pictured sitting on what was presumably Dad's hotel bed. While virtually naked. Now what? Is nothing ever as it seems? I thought I'd become too cynical, but the inevitable conclusion after today's goings-on is that I am by no means cynical enough.

Parliamentary Protocol in Tatters Again, and Dad Makes a Bid for Sympathy.

The Boss is going to end up being named on the floor of the House again, if he keeps this up. He's taken on two more non-constituents' cases today - both completely bonkers. Actually, maybe the fact that these people are nuts will mean that their own MPs won't feel so inclined to complain about Andrew's latest breach of Parliamentary protocol*, so he'll get away with it this time. It's not as if we don't have enough constituents of our own, anyway - but he just can't resist the temptation to appear as if he is everyone's saviour. That's probably a personality disorder in its own right, especially now that we all have one, according to interpretations of the latest edition of the DSM.

I am still fretting about Mr and Mrs Cowan's case, as I haven't heard anything back from their bank yet, though I did make it clear how urgent the situation was. I decide to phone the manager, only to be told that he is going to send me a fax. When it arrives, I can't see why he bothered. All it says is that the bank has put the Cowan's account on hold, while awaiting the result of the Police investigation into the identity fraud. The manager suggests I contact the officer dealing with investigation, so I leave a voicemail on the Policeman's mobile and hope for the best. I must remember to start shredding tonight. And not just our old correspondence, either. There are parts of Max I am also tempted to cut into small strips.

In the evening, I get a reply from Dad. His email simply says, "Women never understand."

My reply is equally terse: "Women understand only too well."

Now I'll have to wait and see what his next move is.

It doesn't take long to find out. Dinah phones half an hour later.

"Why have you upset Dad?" she says.

"What d'you mean?" Now what has he said?

"Calling him Gary Glitter. Bit strong, wasn't it?" Dinah is not acting normal. She's usually the first to go ballistic about Dad's behaviour.

"Dinah, have you actually seen his holiday photos?"

"No. Why?"

"Just check your email in five minutes, and all will become clear."

Immediately after I forward Dad's pictures to her, Dinah sends me a text. It just says, "Holy shit!" I am vindicated. It'd be nice if that happened more often, actually.

I decide to spend the rest of the evening sorting out the paperwork, prior to my shredding-fest. I am staying out of Max's way, until I have decided if what he did was bad enough to merit my taking revenge by joining Johnny in the lap of luxury. Max is looking subdued, but pretending that everything is normal. I hate it when he does that. It always makes me look like the confrontational one. Same as Dad's version of the Gary Glitter story, now I come to think of it.

*Parliamentary protocol - see Page 3 of the document for an explanation of the convention that MPs do not interfere in issues raised by the constituents of other MPs. Not that this convention ever bothers The Boss.

The Necessity to Pass a Psychological Fitness Test Before Using the Phone.

God, the nutters are out in force today. Or on the phone, anyway. All the usual suspects call first thing - I think they store up all their bile over the weekend and are just bursting to vent it at someone by Monday morning. And I always seem to be the recipient of choice.

Miss Chambers is in full flood about her neighbours, who she still thinks are stealing her electricity. She claims they've rigged up some sort of Heath Robinson-style construction between her attic and theirs, and wants me to get the Police to take her seriously. This would be an impossible task, as she is completely barking mad.

Then Mr Beales phones. The conversation is the usual surreal experience, though this time it's not about his lousy photographs, which makes a change.

"Bloody speed cameras," he says, without preamble.

"Oh, yes?" I am bored already.

"I've been done for speeding!"

"And were you?" I stare out of the window and wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. "Speeding, I mean?"

"Well, yeah - but I wouldn't have been. That bloody policeman was hiding in a bush!"

Oh, for Godsake. I have absolutely no patience with people who complain about being caught speeding. As far as I'm concerned, it's simple - if you don't want to be caught, then don't bloody well do it.

"I should just pay the fine and have done with it, if I was you," I say. "Was that all?"

"No - of course it isn't all. He wasn't wearing his luminous jacket!"

"What's that got to do with it?" Now he's going to tell me that, if he'd seen the policeman, he'd have been able to slow down, and wouldn't have got a speeding ticket. I could make a living from predicting the future.

"Well, I wouldn't have hit him if I'd seen him, would I?" says Mr Beales, as if that was obvious.

At lunchtime, Johnny replies to the email I sent him after Max's stunt at the party. He's booked us rooms  - rooms, plural - at the Marriott County Hall for the week after next. Our dirty mid-week "weekend" suddenly seems a horribly real prospect, and I want to change my mind, until I recall Max moving in on Annoying Ellen's neck like a predatory, if semi-conscious, slug - at which point I reply,  saying only, "Send details and see you then."

I still can't decide where Max's offence rates on the scale of marital infidelity. How much does something count when you're so drunk that you probably don't know where your feet are, let alone whether you're married?

I don't have time to analyse the situation further, as the phones just won't stop ringing. Now everyone wants to know why they are personally paying for Ian Huntley to sue for damages, not to mention having to fund any payout he may eventually receive in compensation.

Of course, the daily PLP briefing* is no help on this. In fact, it's never any help on anything as far as I can tell. Not if you would actually like to be able to answer a constituent's question, rather than side-stepping it and boasting instead about the Party's achievements. I always assume the briefings are written by policy wonks in Millbank, and only with MPs and SpAds* in mind.

By the time I get home, I never want to answer a phone again - so of course, the landline rings as soon as Josh has let me into the house.

"Are you Bonjour Freight Shippers?" What is this man talking about?

"Um, no - "

"Well, this was the number I got from 1471. I checked the last caller after I got your answer-phone message, as your man forgot to leave a number."

"Er, sorry - who is speaking, please?" I have had enough of surrealism for one day, thank you very much.

"Mr O'Nyons."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about. There must be some mistake."

"No," says Mr O'Nyons, speaking very slowly as if I am a halfwit. "The man who left the message said that you had a large shipment of onions that you had been asked to deliver to me, and that you wanted to confirm my address. "

Oh, Christ. Onions. O'Nyons. Bloody hell, do I need this?

"I'm very sorry, but I have never heard of Bonjour Freight Shippers, and I can only assume that there must have been an error at the exchange." My MP's office voice does come in useful sometimes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a family emergency to attend to."

I put the phone down, take a deep breath, and go upstairs. Josh is lying on his bed, laughing his head off.

"You are grounded," I say. "For the next ten years. And don't you dare touch that phone again while I am at work."

"You've got to admit it was funny, Mum," says Josh. "O'Nyons! What a muppet. Didn't mean to forget to put 141 in first, though."

I don't reply. I am married to a Botox Queen-snogger, I have Gary Glitter as a father, and I am raising a juvenile delinquent. I see nothing whatsoever to laugh about.



*SpAds - Special Advisors. Basically the same as me, but earning six times as much, and with better perks, and higher status. (And probably longer legs, too.)

*PLP briefings - daily email briefings from the Parliamentary Labour Party. Suffice to say that they are less than helpful to constituency caseworkers, as they provide "key messages" with which MPs and SpAds* can respond to media enquiries, but are little use in caseworkers' non-political role. We're expected to actually answer real questions! PLP briefings are also top secret - each page has the following warning attached: PLP briefings are the property of the Labour party. They are confidential and are for the use of registered members only. Any publishing or dissemination of PLP political briefing is prohibited and may be unlawful.

Men. Which should be said out loud in tones of deep disgust.

I feel like shit and seem to have lost my sense of humour entirely. When Max finally wakes up, he staggers into the kitchen and cooks an enormous fry-up, which seems to remove any trace of a hangover. There is no justice. I can't even face eating anything.

Then the phone rings. It is Ellen's toyboy-in-chief, who says he wants his jacket back. Apparently, Connie picked up his jacket by mistake, during our hasty flight from the party last night. He sounds less than happy to have discovered that he is now the not-so-proud possessor of Max's Primark jacket, while we have an Armani version hanging in our hallway. Actually, they don't look any different to me, but I daren't say that.

After Connie's gone out to return the jacket, Max looks at me and says,

"What's up? Why are you being so snotty?"

What's up? What's up? Where do I start?

"I should've thought you'd know what is bloody well up," I say.

"Haven't got a clue." Max looks genuinely perplexed. "What've I done?"

"Well, let me see - how can I sum it up for you?" I am so angry that I can barely speak. "Oh, yes - that's right. You moved in on Ellen in front of everyone, including me. And your daughter."

"I did what?" Max looks like he thinks I'm joking.

"And then you kissed her. On the neck."

'I didn't!" Max starts laughing. Bad move.

"Er, yes - you did, Dad." Connie is back. She looks almost as cross as I am.

"Good God," says Max, as I stalk off and go back to bed.

I stay in our bedroom for the rest of the day, trying to work out whether I am entitled to be as angry with Max as I am, given that he was so drunk and can't even remember what he did. I only get up again in the evening to check my email, but there's nothing from Johnny. I forgot - he's gallivanting somewhere in Eastern Europe again this weekend, and had warned me he might be unavailable for much of the time. My in-box isn't completely empty, though. Dad is back from Thailand, and has sent me an email, snappily entitled "Thai adventure."

I open it. There is no text at all, just six photos attached. I open the first one, expecting beaches, or mountains. There's scenery, all right - but it isn't of the landscape variety. It's of a young Thai girl in a bar. The next picture is of the same girl, next to a swimming pool. There's no sign of Dad until the third picture, where he appears - showing far too much man boob than should be allowed anywhere in the world.

In picture number four, the Thai girl is draped around Dad's neck, like a fresh-faced boa constrictor. By picture six, she is sitting on a bed in a hotel room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. For God's sake! I have to tell someone, and I am still not speaking to Max, so I call up to Connie who has also been lurking in her bedroom all day, out of the way of parental strife.

"Con, you won't believe what Grandad has just sent me!"

"I bloody well will. Didn't you notice he copied me in on the email?" She makes a vomiting noise. "I'm mortified."

"What?" Now Josh has appeared. I show him the photos and he starts to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" I say. "There's nothing bloody funny about sending your daughter this."

"He's trying to wind you up, Mum," Josh says. "You know what he's like."

"Yeah, like all bloody men. A prize shit - apart from you, Josh."

I turn back to the computer, and start typing. In retrospect, this may not have been a wise move. Before I know it, I have pressed send. Now an email saying only Come back, Gary Glitter - all is forgiven is winging its way to my father's inbox.

I am going to have a very early night. I think it's best.

Annoying Ellen's Birthday Party. May She Rot In Hell.

Gah. It's Annoying Ellen's birthday party tonight. I don't know why I don't just find the courage to tell her that I can't stand her, and then refuse to go. I guess I'm probably afraid of falling out with her because I seem to spend half of my working life trying to stop the suffering caused by neighbour disputes. I don't want to find her kicking the side of our car in, or throwing dog poo over the garden wall.

So, as usual, I keep the peace, and now I'm in a state of total panic as to what to wear to compete with Ellen. Unless I wear a balaclava, this is an entirely unrealistic aim, as Ellen's blindingly high-shine forehead is a testament to what can only be achieved via repeated injections of Botox. I decide that I will just have to rely on finding something flattering to wear.

I feel as if I have hit the jackpot when Max spots me posing in front of the mirror in a dress that could be described as body-con - had it not been from the early 80s, before that phrase was even thought of.

"You still have a great body for a woman of your age," he says.

Wow. Wow! Did my husband really just say that? I am lost in transports of joy for all of five minutes, until I realise that he was being rather specific. Why didn't he just say, "You look great for a woman of your age?" Or even, "You look great?" I'll tell you why. Because my body might look good, but my face doesn't. Aargh. I need Botox, right now. Maybe if I put a bag over my head and blunder around the house wearing that, Max might actually fancy me enough to consider having sex with me more than twice a year.

So I am already feeling very low-spirited by the time we walk round to Ellen's, with Connie in tow. I have decided to take her with us, in the hope that she can poach one of Ellen's toyboys to fill the less than yawning gap left by Russ's departure. It doesn't really help. Connie thinks all the toyboys present look dead from the neck up, and insists on staying close to me instead. I almost mention that Russ was hardly a rocket scientist, but am distracted by trying to see what Max is up to.

Connie sticking to me like an Elastoplast has freed him to wander off unsupervised, which is never a good thing. He still hasn't accepted that he cannot keep up with Ellen and her friends' drinking habits. It doesn't matter how many times I tell him not to even bother trying - he always ignores that the reason that they can each drink a whole case of beer is because of the vast quantities of coke they are shoving up their noses. I'm sure Max has already had about six beers and a whole bottle of wine, and he's found a second bottle that he's carrying around with him. This is not going to end well.

I seem to be the only married woman Ellen knows. All the others here are divorced. They are highly-vocal about their sex-starved status - huh! - and are all wearing very shiny tops to match their shiny foreheads. What is it with women of our age? They seem to have a uniform for parties, which basically involves wearing jeans, paired with strappy tops which reveal too much low-slung cleavage. I bet all that bloody beaded decoration was stitched on by starving children in sweatshops. I feel like a visitor from another planet in my little black dress, and my alienation is not helped by the fact that, every time I spot Max, one or other of the shiny women is staring into his eyes, and giving a very good impression of hanging onto his every word.

Connie and I end up sitting in the garden for most of the evening - where I smoke fit to bust, and Connie nags me about my filthy habit. That's when she's not going on about her amazement at the behaviour of some of Ellen's friends - who turn out to be teachers at Josh's school. No wonder Josh is like he is. Then one of the toyboys suggests a game of poker and, after checking that we're not talking about strip poker, I persuade Connie that we should both join in. I am bored enough to play snap by then, so poker seems a much better option. I suddenly realise that Max is seated at the other end of the long table, next to Ellen. She has obviously just been upstairs for another snort, and is displaying an irritating amount of energy. I do hope she doesn't supply coke to her students. Or Josh, for that matter.

Unfortunately, Max is not displaying anything other than the fact that he is totally obliterated by now. I decide make him a coffee, but get a mouthful of abuse when I take it over to him, so I retire back to my place at the other end of the table, where I then have the dubious pleasure of watching my husband gradually slipping sideways on his chair. I'm just considering whether to ride to his rescue, when I realise that he is slipping towards Ellen, whilst wearing a beatific smile. As if in slow-motion, he moves in towards her neck, upon which he plants a long, slow kiss. Suddenly, the room falls quiet, and I feel as if I have been paralysed.

"What the hell are you doing, Dad?" Connie breaks the spell, thank God.

She stands and goes to pull Max off his chair, pushing past Ellen, who just sits there giggling. I am so angry and humiliated that I can't move, until Connie gestures at me to help her. Even with our combined efforts, we still can't get Max to his feet, so we have to draft in help - in the shape of two of the toyboys, who hoist Max up, and then half-carry, half-drag him back to our house. Connie walks behind, carrying Max's jacket, while I storm ahead wielding my keys as if they were a weapon.

In the hallway, Max shakes off the toyboys and lurches into the living room, laughing like a lunatic. Connie throws a blanket over him and then looks at me in disbelief. I have no words, which is most unlike me. As soon as Connie's gone to bed, I am going to email Johnny and say that I've changed my mind. Marriott County Hall, here I come. As soon as bloody possible.

Welfare Reform Proposals

In the light of so many comments about Housing Benefit and Welfare Reform, here's the link to the WR proposals.

A Depressing Tale of the Shambles that is Housing Benefit.

Today's surgery seems to be all about Housing Benefit. The whole system is a shambles. For every Somali family living in million-pound luxury in the West End, there are God knows how many other people struggling to keep even the most modest roof over their heads.

Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.

Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.

Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.

The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.

I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.

Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.

My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough  - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.

All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?

An Asperger's Eye View of Flexi-Time.

Connie's done it again. I've been wondering what she was up to - she seems to have been going into work later and later each day, but coming home earlier. This evening, I ask her what she's playing at.

"What d'you mean, what am I playing at?"

"Going into work so late, and coming home so early," I say. "Doesn't your boss mind that you're working so few hours?"

"No," says Connie, looking at me as if I am mad. "Why should he?"

"Well," I say. "You are contracted for thirty-seven hours a week, and you can't be working more than twenty-eight -"

"Yeah, I know, stupid!" says Connie. "But I'm on flexi-time, aren't I?"

It turns out that Connie hasn't quite grasped the concept of flexible hours. She thinks that it means that you work as many hours as you like, and that that's okay - as long as you're honest about filling in your timesheet so you're not being overpaid. The fact that her contract is for a specified number of hours a week seems to have bypassed her synapses. I explain. Slowly.

"Con, flexi-time doesn't mean you work as many hours as you like. It means you work thirty-seven hours, but at times to suit you!"

"Oh," says Connie.

Max nearly wets himself when I tell him about it. Connie has a brain the size of a planet, but she must be the most literal person in the world. Josh just rolls his eyes and says,

"I always knew she was stupid as well as fugly."

"What does fugly mean?" says Max. He never learns.

"F*cking ugly," says Josh, the words dripping with sibling rivalry.

I wish I was on flexi-time. In fact, I wish it was so flexible that it didn't involve any hours at all per week.  Then I recall how miserable Jen sounded, and feel guilty about wishing for unemployment. But I could really use a holiday. Trouble is, I've used up nearly all my leave, thanks to The Boss. While he didn't exactly insist that I take almost all my leave for this year during the election campaign, he did suggest I might want to consider taking it at that particular time, and then "volunteering" to help out.

There was no doubting the meaningful way in which he said that he was "always grateful" for a show of support. If he hadn't have made enemies of almost all the Party activists, I'd have ignored him - but his approved campaign team ended up being made up of a core group comprising only me, Greg, and Trish, Andrew's wife - who didn't seem entirely committed to the effort herself. What was that famous quote? Behind every successful man stands an incredulous woman. And a couple of coerced members of staff.

Creative Thinking in the Face of an Emergency.

It's that hellish time of year again - Parliamentary Recess, when MPs return to their constituencies, and wander around like lost souls, irritating the hell out of constituency staff and making work for its own sake. The Boss is worse than most. He thinks he's so indispensable that he cannot take even a single day off, and that we need him to open the mail and answer the phones, despite the fact that these things get done every day whilst he's at Westminster - as if by magic.

I wouldn't mind so much if he'd just go and sit in a coffee bar somewhere and take his laptop with him, but he says he likes to be "in the thick of it", and takes over my desk and my computer instead. Then he decides that I need him to dictate incoherent replies to all the letters he has already opened, or at least, those that he hasn't already misplaced.

This means that I am forced to waste time writing down notes that I have absolutely no intention of making any reference to in the replies that I will eventually write, once he's not looking. To make matters even worse, he seems compulsively driven to start swearing whenever I am on the phone to a constituent - which is really embarrassing. I have to keep explaining it away by pretending that he's the boiler repair man, and has no sense of decorum.

The Boss has also adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he's already rifled through our desk drawers, and the fridge. The most outrageous aspect of this - at least as far as Greg's concerned - is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg's entire secret stash of Twixes, and has used up all the milk.

Greg gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting.

"God almighty, haven't you arranged anything for him to do?" he says.

"I tried," I say, "But bloody Carlotta wouldn't play ball. She even cleared space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us."

"Bloody woman. Wasn't winning the sodding World Cup enough for her?"

Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. Already.

"Well, you've got to do something. I can't stand this. I may have to kill him if you don't get rid of him soon." Greg almost looks capable of murder. He has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate.

Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.

"Go and find yesterday's local paper, then search through it for mentions of local organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding," I say.

"And?" Greg looks unimpressed.

"Then phone them up, and say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they are doing in his constituency.

"And?"

"Say that he would very much like to come and see it for himself, and could he pop over today?"

"Brilliant!" says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone for his vital secret mission.

Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs up, and says,

"Andrew, aren't you supposed to be at your meeting now?"

"What meeting?" Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very over-ambitious mouthful.

"The Phoenix Project in Easemount," says Greg. "Molly, didn't you tell him?"

"God, no. I forgot. Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?"

"No, I can drive," he says. "Just put their number into my mobile in case I get lost."

Whether The Boss can drive is a moot point, but the fact that he has the option must mean that he has finally talked Trish into letting him have the car keys back. (She is a very creative individual herself. You probably have to be to survive being married to Andrew.) A few weeks ago, she developed a well-founded fear that Andrew was going to get caught drink-driving and, mindful of the negative Press coverage that would ensue, she decided to take direct action.

While he was engaged in a medicinal drinking session after a particularly hostile GC*, she sneaked into the car park, and drove his car away. She texted me to tell me what she'd done, but I didn't tell him as I wanted to see what would happen when he went to drive home after the meeting. I expected him to come roaring back into the bar, shouting that his car had been stolen. But he didn't.

It turned out that he just looked around the car park for a bit, then gave up and took a taxi home. He obviously assumed that he was just too drunk to recall where he'd left the car, and that he'd remember once he sobered up. The whole story came out the next morning when, staggering downstairs on a quest for coffee and ibuprofen, he spotted the car parked in the driveway of his house. At that moment, he really didn't have a leg to stand on when Trish refused to give him the keys back. God knows how he's persuaded her to reinstate his driving privileges now.

So, due to my low cunning, we are blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means that I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today's letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to other local organisations. By the end of the afternoon,The Boss is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too - thank God.

Just before I leave the office, Mrs Cowan phones to apologise that her husband hasn't yet got round to signing his Data Protection form. She says she'll make sure he does it tonight, and that she'll drop it off to me tomorrow morning. Then she bursts into tears, and says that they are now being chased for mortgage arrears, as it appears that their bank hasn't even been honouring those payments.

Honestly, those bankers are such shits.  Not that I'm in any position to criticise - spending all my time fretting about not being able to afford a hotel room for a dirty weekend. I need a slap.

*GC - General Committee meeting, as usual.

Questions of Identity, and Other Thorny Issues.

God, people really aren't careful enough about protecting their identities. Today I get a visit from Mrs Cowan, who is completely distraught, the poor woman. She has no access to money, can't pay her mortgage, and her bank are doing nothing to help. Her husband has been a victim of identity fraud but, instead of closing down their joint account and letting the couple start afresh, Mrs Cowan says that the bank are simply refusing to help at all, and are only interested in making charges for the unauthorised borrowing. This really fires me up - especially having spent the last three days being lectured about capitalism. Bloody banks. I am ready to fight to the death over this case.

Mrs Cowan signs the Data Protection forms, and authorises me to apply for a credit report on her behalf. She takes another set of forms home for her husband to sign, so that I can then obtain a copy of his credit report too. In the meantime, I write a terse note to the bank, advising them that The Boss has been asked to take up the case, and that he would appreciate a full explanation as to why it is that nothing appears to be being done to help Mr & Mrs Cowan. I enclose a copy of Mrs C's Data Protection form, and say that I will fax Mr C's through, as soon as he has signed and returned it to me.

I phone Mum, Connie and Josh, and lecture them all on the necessity to shred all their old letters and bank statements. I don't think they'll take any notice, but I for one am going to spend tonight shredding everything in sight. I also delete all Johnny's emails, except for today's.

I am still agitated about his suggestion that we spend a night together at the Marriott County Hall. How could I have forgotten how hideous last weekend was? After the bill for that, I can't afford to stay in a bloody Premier Inn, let alone in a five star hotel at over £300 a night. And even if I could, how would I explain the entry on the bank statement to Max? Maybe only having a joint account wasn't such a good idea - though I've always thought that a commitment to that degree of trust is a necessary part of marriage.

All our divorced friends insisted on keeping their own bank accounts throughout their marriages - as an insurance policy, I suppose. I've always taken the view that the opposite is the case, i.e. that a joint bank account is the most effective way to insure your marriage. Now I suppose I am actually proving my point, much to my frustration. Being right all the time isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I email Johnny, and say that I'd love to meet up with him, but that I just can't get away with it, as there is no way to hide the bill from Max. I can only assume that Johnny will have no such difficulty with his spouse - even if he hasn't killed her off, though I don't say this to him. Having a job as an International Director of a Global Oil Company, and being required to travel all the time, seems to offer the chance to shag your way round the world on expenses, as far as I can see. Though Johnny has never cheated on his wife before. Or so he says.

He emails me straight back and says,

"For God's sake, woman - it's my treat! Yes or no?"

Christ. This is even worse. Does he intend to book one room, or two? And even if he books two, what if he's repulsive in the flesh? (I know there must have been something about him which persuaded me to to get up to what we did behind the Science block, but I'd probably had one too many Babychams at the time.) If he's paying all that money for my room, all because he wants to get me into bed, how easy is it going to be to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," if I can't go through with it?

The answer is obvious. It's going to be impossible, and I shall end up effectively acting like a prostitute. Only worse, because I will be cheating on my husband, and encouraging Johnny to cheat on his wife as well. God knows what Dinah would say. She's quite rude enough on the subject of Thai brides. I need to go home and have a quiet lie-down on the sofa. Sod the shredding.

Another Attempt To Convert Me To Capitalism.

The day starts off okay, as at least The Boss has gone back to London. Then I get a call from the Jobcentre, saying that we may start getting complaints about access to their building later today, as they have been temporarily forced to close it to the public. Apparently Mr Meeurghn has kicked off again, and sent them into total lock-down mode. Something to do with him being turned down for a payment from the Social Fund. I wish someone would just pay for forged documents to get him back into his own country - especially now that I know that not even the combined might of the Jobcentre's security staff can manage him. Greg needs to get down the gym and bulk himself up asap - before Mr M turns up here to complain about being excluded from the Jobcentre.

Talking of the gym, I wish I could afford to join one. Johnny is pushing for a meeting in London during his next trip back to the UK. He suggests we meet here, for Godsake, on the basis that sipping cocktails in the London Marriott will serve as a form of therapy for me. He argues that it will enable me to contemplate the House of Commons at close quarters, while pretending that I am not just a poor relation from the constituencies, but instead someone at the heart of where the action is. In case this isn't enough to convince me, he says that the experience will also illustrate that capitalism is better than socialism by reminding me of the building's previous and less glamorous incarnation as County Hall. (Has he been talking to David?)

I am thrilled by the idea, despite its supposedly educational purpose, until I recall that Johnny does have a wife. I am turning into a bloody hypocrite, ranting about the crazed, sexual attention-seeking of single women like Annoying Ellen and their penchant for inappropriate flirting with married men - or with Max, anyway. And all the time, here I am doing the same thing with someone else's husband! I'm turning into that Boden-wearing, horse-faced woman from the other night. I can't look at myself in the mirror when I next go to the loo.

I blame Johnny, as I suddenly realise that he hasn't actually mentioned his wife for weeks. I'd forgotten all about her. I re-read his latest email, and discover that he has somehow managed to describe a night at the opera, the trip there and back in his chauffered car, and a meal afterwards - all without saying "we" once. She has ceased to exist - written out of his life without a trace. This starts me fretting about whether he really could be a serial killer. His glasses don't have the double bar, but they are metal-framed, after all....

I sit and stare at his photo. The resemblance to Vladimir Putin is unnerving, apart from the fact that Vlad doesn't wear glasses. Am I being doubly hypocrital? As if it's not bad enough to be considering having an affair with a married man, am I also turned on by power? I've always assumed that I am impervious to it, and mocked those who aren't - but then it's a bit of a stretch to think that The Boss actually has any power anyway.

I am going to have to think about this. Very carefully. Mind you, if Johnny gets sent to the States in return for Tony Hayward being sent to Russia, looking like Putin will probably cease to be advantageous, and he'll have to start trying to look like Obama instead. (This might be too challenging, even for a man of Johnny's undoubted abilities.)

In the evening, I finally get an email from Dad. From a new Hotmail account, and sent from Thailand. It's astonishing how adept he has become at using a computer in such a short time - though Dinah ascribes this purely to his having spent hours each day cruising porn sites. He certainly doesn't spend hours communicating with his daughters. The email simply contains one word: "Hot." I really hope this is referring to the weather, and not to any of his Thai Facebook "friends."